


Solid Ground

by noelia_g



Series: Groundverse [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Kidfic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:10:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noelia_g/pseuds/noelia_g
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU ending of TDK results in Barbara Gordon's death. James Gordon is left to deal with the fallout, raising two kids on his own, and dealing with his new job. But he might have an unexpected ally in Bruce Wayne, however the billionaire's sudden entrance in his life continues to baffle him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solid Ground

Barbara Gordon's funeral takes place in the early morning, the air is still crisp and fresh, like after a long storm. The timing is worked out perfectly so that there is a brief gathering at Jim's house afterwards, and he has enough time to make it to her killer's funeral and give a speech on what a hero he was.

The second funeral is large and pompous, with speeches, gigantic photos, the flag, and the damned honour guard. Barbara's funeral is small, just the family, some of the officers Jim's worked with for so long they're practically family as well, and Garcia making an appearance with some rarely evidenced real concern, telling Jim to take all the time he needs before getting back to work.

All the time he needs is a few hours before he wants to throw himself back into work, but there are the kids to think of. Jimmy spends the entire day practically glued to his side; at the cemetery he hides his face in Jim's coat, then trails after him through the house, watching Jim's every move. Babs just holds his hand tightly throughout the service, letting go only for a brief moment, to place a bunch of roses on the grave, and at the wake she sits in the armchair Barbara favoured and reads some heavy book, pointedly ignoring everyone who stops to say few words to her.

And this is also the biggest, and probably the only one, surprise of the entire day, penetrating the efficient haze Jim worked himself into. At the cemetery, there's a discreet black Bentley parked on the side, long enough to kick start Jim's paranoia, and he sends Stephens to check it out. Stephens comes back with a bewildered expression and Bruce Wayne in tow. Wayne just nods at Jim, and doesn't say much beyond the usual cliches, sorry for your loss and all that, and even though the curiosity is killing Jim, it's not like he can start the interrogation.

The bewilderment continues during the wake, but Jim's too busy dodging questions and sympathies to actually find time to talk to Wayne. Sometime at the end of the first hour he catches a glimpse of Wayne crouching next to the armchair Babs is occupying, saying something that actually gets her to look up. Jim can't disentangle himself from the conversation he's having, and he's trying to hear what Wayne is saying, but nothing makes it over the sound of the dishes clinking and people talking. Whatever he's saying has Babs nod solemnly, her mouth set into a determined line even as she's biting her lower lip.

Jim excuses himself and walks up to them, his hand still holding Jimmy's. "Mr Wayne," he says, a question more than a greeting, and Bruce looks up, doesn't move to stand, his eyes still on Babs and Jimmy's level.

"Commissioner," he says pleasantly, then lowers his head again. "And Jimmy, is that right?"

Jimmy nods shyly, fingers tightening in Jim's hand. He had enough of people offering their sympathy today, and enough of pats on the head for an entire lifetime. Jim briefly wishes he could stop Wayne before he does the same, but checks himself and just holds Jimmy's hand closer to himself.

Wayne, however, just nods politely. "Nice to meet you," he says seriously, as if making acquaintances with eleven years olds was something he did on the daily basis, proper and polite, no condescension at all. Jimmy nods back, and, wonder of wonders, extends his hand, not the one clasped in Jim's, but his left one. Wayne shakes it seriously, and only then he moves to stand up and look at Jim, reaching out to shake his hand as well, and Jim just extends it absently, baffled.

"My condolences," Wayne says, and Jim can only nod. This entire thing goes against his long lasting opinion of Bruce Wayne, but now, looking at him, Jim remembers that one day long ago, and thinks that everyone has something that hits too close.

"Thank you," Jim isn't exactly sure what to say, and he forces a nervous smile. "I'm not sure why..." he starts and shakes his head, not entirely sure what he's actually trying to say.

"Repaying old debts," Wayne offers quietly, looking at Jim intently and for once Jim has the surreal feeling that he's permitted to see something real and open. It's been a long while, and Wayne is no longer a scared kid, and looking at him now it's difficult to remember he ever was that boy in his father's coat, but at this very moment, Jim remembers it all too well. Same haunted look he sees on Jimmy's face now, same closed up expression Babs wears. It's like a kick to the gut, a very slow, excruciatingly painful one. Jim tightens his hold on Jimmy, makes a step forward to Barbara's chair without even thinking. Wayne nods. "Commissioner," he repeats and is gone, swiftly disappearing in the crowd of dark suits.

Babs carefully places a bookmark in her book, and closes it with a soft sound, putting it on the coffee table. Jim sits down on the armrest, pulling Jimmy up to sit on his knee; Jimmy had been protesting against those gestures for the last few months, some kid at school told him it was childish, but now he leans into Jim, resting his head on Jim's shoulder. Barbara just moves slightly towards him, not yet touching his arm, but close, and that's an achievement in itself, that and the way her tight expression softens a little, and she looks like she may finally cry.

Montoya gives the three of them a look, catching Jim's eyes, and plays interference for the next half an hour, letting them just sit there, undisturbed. Finally, people start leaving, most of them are going to attend the next funeral on the day's to-do list, and Jim is really not looking forward to this one, but couldn't find good enough an excuse to beg off, not with the version of events he had given everyone.

And that's another can of worms, that one. He had been too stricken at the time, too stunned by the events, by being alive when Barbara wasn't, that he hadn't thought the lie through. He knows Batman had, and that makes it even worse. For a while there, before he had time to consider everything, Jim had planned on clearing Batman's name as soon as possible, finding a way to make it everything go away, find another scapegoat, someone who wasn't as important to Gotham's sanity as Harvey Dent.

But in an effort to save his children from giving statements and adding to the already considerable trauma, he had given a very detailed one, clearly naming Batman as Harvey and Barbara's killer. There was no going back from this one. Batman must have known, damn him. There were other ways, and if they had paused and pondered, they might have found them then and there. But Barbara was lying lifeless on the ground, Babs holding her hand like an anchor, Jimmy hiding his face in his father's coat. There was no time, there was no other choice. They'll just have to deal with the consequences.

They hadn't planned for this with Barbara either. They had sat down and talked through all possible consequences of Jim's death, late at night after a close call on a drug bust, bullet lodged in his shoulder, the old wound still aching now, even though it was years ago. Barbara had kept her voice steady and ordered Jim to for once consider the possible fallout of him not coming home one day, of his fellow officers on the doorstep, bringing the worst of news. He had written letters that night, to his kids, for all the important events, for their birthdays, for their weddings, for everything that he might not be there to see. Barbara had given the kids first of those letters after the deception few days ago, and at least there was that. There was nothing from Barbara, no letters, not that many photos or mementos, just her everyday stuff, clothes, books. It will have to do.

With everyone gone, Jim leaves the kids in Montoya's care. He had some qualms about it, using senior detectives as babysitters was a bit too close to abusing his new power, but she had volunteered, said that she didn't like speeches and eulogies, and he gave in. He just tells her to don't let the kids watch tv under any circumstances. He had explained the necessity of lying in this one instance, but he still doesn't want them to listen to his empty speech.

He wonders, how many people can see through it, who can tell that he's lying through his teeth. He's never been good at bluffing, Barbara used to laugh at him about that. He looks among the faces gathered below the podium and no one seems to notice. Maybe he did get better at this.

Walking off the makeshift stage, Jim catches the expression on Bruce Wayne's face, and frowns. He hadn't expected the man to be here, seeing him twice on the same day is astonishing, considering their respective social circles; but of course, he remembers, Wayne was one of Harvey's supporters, even threw a fundraiser, the one that been brought to Jim's attention only because Joker had crashed the party. It's not such a surprise that he's here. But once Jim looks hard enough, the expression doesn't quite ring true, it's one of anger, not grief, however carefully controlled. It might not be obvious, but Jim had seen enough of it in the mirror to decipher the cold look in Wayne's eyes. It's another piece of the puzzle, more confusing than the others, but even though his interest is raised, Jim pushes the mystery into a far corner of his mind. He already has too much to think about.

When he gets home, the kids are just about passed out from exhaustion, as Montoya let them overindulge on popcorn and chocolate, and roped them into playing some video game with a guitar that puzzles Jim greatly.

"They weren't very enthusiastic," Renee says, shrugging and Jim nods. "But it's something."

It is something. "Thanks, Montoya," Jim forces a smile, and it feels a bit more genuine than all the others.

"Anytime, boss," she offers, and waves her goodbye before packing up the plastic guitar and walking out.

Babs sleeps soundly, and only mutters something inaudible when Jim picks her up and carries her to her room. She's already in her yellow pajamas, all Jim has to do is discard her cat-shaped slippers and cover her with the thick blanket and kiss her forehead, brushing her hair away from her face. When he gets back to the living room, Jimmy is awake, resting his head on his hands, elbows on his knees, staring absently out of the window.

"Ready to go to sleep?" Jim asks, and gets a shrug in return. "Alright, what is it?" he asks, sitting on the coach, gently nudging Jimmy with his elbow.

"Is Batman really gone?" Jimmy asks, his voice barely controlled, as if he was holding back tears. Jim blinks a few times, tugs off his glasses and closes his eyes briefly, then reaches out to pull Jimmy closer to him.

"Why do you ask?"

"Renee had been talking on the phone. She said that Batman was probably long gone now. Not going to show up again, she said."

Montoya is on the taskforce, of course, and Jim knows he'll have to have a talk with her sometime soon. Stephens knows, but no one else yet. As much as his idea of clearing up Batman's name is not going to take, at least he'll need to be sure his officers won't be shooting at the Bat on sight. "He's going to hide for a while, I think."

"But is he gone?" There's a note of real fear now, and Jim sighs, kissing the top of Jimmy's head. He can't even begin to imagine what they're going through, first his insane stunt of faking his own death, then Barbara. And Batman, whom Jimmy practically worshipped, blamed for her death, and quite probably on the run.

"I hope not," he says quietly. "I don't think Batman would leave us," he offers slowly, and it might even be the truth. Batman loves Gotham too much, and even though he should leave, Jim suspects he won't. He probably can't, not any more than Jim can, no matter what. "He's a hero, remember?"

Jimmy smiles softly, and nods his head, low, his eyes already closing. "Yeah."

"Come on, off to bed, before you fall asleep here," Jim says, voice crisp and even again, and Jimmy opens his eyes widely.

"You carried Babs," he says, just a hint of whine, and Jim snorts lightly.

"Fine. Hold on," he says, picking Jimmy up, making his way upstairs.

"Leave the light on?"

"Of course," Jim closes the door, frowning. He hopes against hope the nightmares will not come tonight, but there are slim chances. Jimmy had been having ever since Barbara... Babs sleeps soundly, thankfully, but Jim is not sure if that's an entirely good thing. She bottles everything up, too much, she's all too similar to him in this.

He changes in the bathroom, avoiding looking into the mirror as much as he can, then gets back to the living room, cleaning up the rest of the mess, leaving the dishes in the sink to take care of tomorrow. He's tired, and not just in the way he is after a long day, this weariness he feels deeper, in the muscles, in the bones. He picks up the folded blanket and the pillow from the armchair, and sets on the couch. It's lumpy, and doesn't do anything for his back, but he hadn't yet brought himself to sleep alone in his and Barbara's bed. He's not sentimental, and he's not melodramatic, but... the couch it is, for now.

He wakes up to the sound of something breaking, and jumps up just slightly, looking around. Jimmy is sitting on the floor next to the couch, watching a cartoon with some big-eyed flying girls, and the sounds of the tv are drowned in the cacophony coming from the kitchen. "Babs?" he yells, and in response, the clinking of glass or whatnot stops briefly, just to be resumed after she yells back 'In here, Dad.'

Jim walks into the kitchen, looking around suspiciously. Babs is apparently attempting to cook charcoal in the frying pan. "What is it?"

"Pancakes," she says, and pokes the charred one with a fork, trying to scrub it off the frying pan. Jim winces only briefly, and manages to cover it up with a cough.

"Sounds good. I'll get the syrup," he offers, and rummages through the cupboard. From the look of the already made pancakes, they're going to need a lot of syrup, enough to have the kids' teeth rotted through. "Jimmy, come here, your sister made us pancakes," he says loudly enough for it to carry to the leaving room, and turns to look at Babs. She looks just slightly different, concentrated on the task, biting her lip with a serious expression as she tries to move the last pancake from the pan onto a plate. This one is just dark brown, not black, which bears some hope for the future.

"Hey, Babs," Jim says casually, arranging the plates on the table, handing Jimmy forks and knives to set them down. "What did you talk about with Mr Wayne yesterday?"

She looks up. "Bruce?" she asks, to make sure, and at Jim's answering nod and a raised eyebrow, she shrugs. "Stuff."

"What stuff?"

"He said you're going to take good care of us," she offers matter-of-factly, opening the fridge to get some orange juice. Which is a good thing, as she doesn't notice Jim's jaw practically hitting the floor in surprise. "And that you're going to need someone to take care of you."

 

A day after Barbara's funeral, and Jim's already breaking the first promise he had given her. He brings work home, and even though it's not crime scene photos, or anything even remotely dangerous, it's still something he didn't want to do. But it's that or staying in the office throughout the afternoon, and that he's not going to do. He drives up to the city hall while the kids are at school, and makes his assistant greatly irritated by having her round up the files for all the detectives employed by the Gotham PD. It's going to take ages, he knows, but he fully intends to go through every one of them, and hopefully end up with a department he can work with. And most importantly, a department that can work well without him. He takes the first portion of the files home, and stops for the groceries on the way.

He hadn't done that in ages, apart from the emergency runs of 'we've run out of cornflakes. Buy some on the way from work'. He probably buys too much, or the wrong stuff, and has to get back twice, once for milk, and once for toilet paper.

Kids get home about ten minutes after he does, and Jimmy is pointedly not looking at him. Jim supposes another kid at school had once more said something about Batman, it's that kind of look Jimmy gets at those times. He has been strictly forbidden to argue the point, and there's still some resentment over that. Jim doesn't exactly know how to approach the subject, so he goes on with avoiding it, which is probably the worst idea of the day, but he needs time to brace himself and prepare the arguments that won't end with Jimmy in tears.

Babs makes a beeline for the computer, predictably, and claims homework purposes. He doesn't call her on it even when the computer starts making noises definitely not related to anything remotely resembling homework. A day more, he gives them, before they work out some rules. This used to be things Barbara dealt with, time for homework, time for playing, the allowed candy amount, things like that. He doesn't look forward to stepping in, but it's one of the things he'll have to get used to.

A week later, he's still not used to it, but at least it's not as difficult as it was at the very beginning. Babs has taken over breakfasts, and they'd almost got Jimmy to make the lunches, but it turned out they'd be eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every day, and even Babs vetoed that. She had really took the Wayne-appointed mission to heart, and makes sure Jim has breakfast, and doesn't stay up late. It's beginning to be just a little bit annoying, but at least it seems like she's dealing. That's Babs alright, give her a project and she fixes all her attention on it. He wonders how the hell did Wayne know that, or how did he get that lucky.

It's worse with Jimmy. Maybe because he was the one Harvey held at gunpoint, before Barbara moved, and... well, maybe. Four days after the funeral, he gets called in by Jimmy's teacher, and handed a drawing Jimmy did. There's their house, with some really creative perspective work, and Jimmy, Babs, Jim, with a rather large mustache that seems to cover most of his face, Barbara, away and above, although it's a bit hard to tell with the perspective. And there's Batman, in the corner, surrounded by rather a lot of dark crayon shadows. The teacher says Jimmy still fears the man who killed his mother, and Jim doesn't protest, just promises to look into the list of therapists she recommends.

"He watches over us," Jimmy says later, and Jim shrugs, unsure what to say. Barbara would know.

"I'm sure he does. Can he not do that on your pictures, though?" He explains, once again, and once again Jimmy just looks at him blankly. Jim feels he's loosing strength for this, how long can you argue the man who saved your life is not to be spoken of, and if it can't be avoided, has to be presented as a murderer?

Batman himself hadn't been around since that night, and that's probably a good thing. Jim had made changes in the taskforce responsible from bringing him in, only the officers he could trust implicitly, and who could be given the real version of events. The reactions ranged from shock to relief, but the only one voiced was Montoya's heartfelt 'Shit', followed soon by 'Sorry, boss'. She needn't have to apologise, he shared that sentiment.

He wonders, sometimes, briefly, how is Batman doing. It can't be easy on him either.

Jim is... dealing, he supposes is the term. He wouldn't know about that. On Saturday, he spends the whole morning sorting through Barbara's things. Piles of books, clothes, old letters, jewelry, things for Barbara and Jimmy to keep, things to send back to her mother in Chicago, things to give to Goodwill. He moves the bed half a meter closer to the window, and gives Babs Barbara's night table, and it somehow solves his problem of not being able to sleep in the bedroom. He still keeps to his side almost religiously, not daring to roll over to Barbara's even in his sleep, but it can be called dealing.

"Are we going tomorrow?" Babs asks on Saturday evening, and he seems to have lost a large chunk of conversation.

"Going where?"

"Nutcracker," she says matter-of-factly, and he remembers. Barbara had gotten the tickets, for herself and Babs, they were hard to come by but she knew someone who knew someone from the cast, and so two tickets were obtained.

"You want me to go with you?" he asks, and Barbara shrugs, not looking at him, playing as if it didn't really matter. She's a bad liar, her cheeks are flushing scarlet, she takes that after him as well. "Jimmy, do you want to go?" he asks just to be on the safe side, but Jimmy just throws him a pitying look.

"Ballet is for girls."

There's that. He smiles at Babs, and nods. "Seems like it's you and me, kid."

She insists he wears a tux, too, the old one he actually wore to his wedding. Babs doesn't know that, of course, and he hides the slight shake in his hands as he puts it on, and ties the bow-tie. Babs tells him to show her how to do that, and they spent half an hour tying it and untying, until she's satisfied. It almost makes them late, but they manage five minutes before the show.

Babs is quiet throughout the ballet, but whether she's fascinated by the story, or just closed up like in the most recent days, Jim can't exactly tell. He really hopes it's the former, and the intermission seems to confirm the hopes.

"Sophie Clark goes to ballet classes," she says, and Jim has enough experience by now to correctly decipher the remark. Four months ago, it had been jujitsu. A year ago, riding lessons. Sometime before that, the piano. Of all these, only jujitsu continues, but if she's considering ballet, she might be losing enthusiasm for that too.

"I'll call Sophie's mom tomorrow and ask about those classes," he offers, and Barbara seems satisfied with the answer. It's not a no, after all. And Jim had met Sophie's mom a few times, during the kid's birthday parties, and last year on Halloween, and she seemed sensible and matter-of-fact, and if she thought it was a good idea for Babs, Jim would agree. Maybe a new activity would be good for her.

Apart from the newest craze for Babs, the intermission brings a surprise encounter in the hall, almost making Jim snort in disbelief. He had went on for a good twenty years with only encountering Bruce Wayne twice, and now it seemed the man was everywhere. He has on a tux that fits better than Jim's ever could, and is accompanied by a stunning young woman who looks vaguely familiar to Jim, which probably means that she's a famous actress or someone like that.

Even a few weeks ago, Jim would have expected them to pass him and Babs by without as much as a glance, but now he isn't all that surprised when Wayne stops in his tracks and smiles widely in greeting. "Commissioner," he says, and turns to Barbara with a small bow of his head. "Miss Gordon."

The introductions are made, and Wayne chats with Babs for a while about the ballet, occasionally directing a question or a remark at Jim who does his best in trying to answer, even though the whole thing is rather surreal. And, if he's not mistaken, although reading Wayne is an unexpected challenge, the younger man is carefully assessing them, looking with some concern at Barbara's face, casting quick searching glances at Jim. Gordon himself is beginning to form a vague impression of becoming Wayne's charity project of some sort, and he might want to take offense at that, but Babs is smiling widely and discussing Clara's escapades, and he can't.

After the second act, Babs looks around searchingly, and there's some disappointment written on her face when she realises Wayne is already gone. "What do you say we pick up some pizza after we get Jimmy from Robert's?" he asks, and she nods happily. It's been two weeks since the last time they had pizza, and he feels he had made good on his promise to himself to actually get them well-rounded meals, not take-away every night. He had even learned how to work the ancient oven, even though his first attempt was worse than Barbara's initial batch of pancakes.

To Jimmy's feeble protests, Babs proceeds to tell him the entire story of Nutcracker, and they're still chatting as Jim washes the dishes, handing them to Babs to dry off, and then to Jimmy to put them in their right cupboards and drawers, but the conversation had somehow turned into an argument about whether ninjas would win in a war against rats. Jim prefers not to ask.

Kids tucked in, an hour later, Jim turns his attention to another batch of files he had brought from the office. It seems like this is his entire job now, paperwork, and occasional lunch meetings, but he has been assured this was the case with being the commissioner. He's mildly disappointed, but it's probably for the better. Even though he probably could overrule the tradition and insist on being included in drug busts and such, he can't do that anymore. Paperwork it is, and at least he stays on top of everything that's going on within the department, and of the most important cases currently investigated.

A gust of wind ruffles the sheets of paper spread over the table, carrying a few off it. Jim curses, and then tenses briefly; he's pretty sure he had closed all the windows against the November cold.

"Don't turn around." The voice is certainly familiar, and Jim nods, absently reaching to pick up the papers from the floor and place them back on the table.

"Feels just like old times," he notes with a small smile, and tugs his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Why the case of the sudden shyness?

"I didn't think the suit was a good idea, considering..." that every cop in the city would shoot at sight. Well, almost every cop.

"Of course. What brings you here? If it's the recent strings of murders in the Narrows, we have nothing new that you probably wouldn't know."

There's no answer for a moment, and Jim can tell without looking that the Bat shifts, a step closer to the back of the couch. "I had to..." he starts, an uncharacteristic hesitance, a long pause. "How are you doing?"

Jim can't help it, he laughs at that. "Not you too," he mutters, shaking his head. He's getting tired of this question, honestly. Batman doesn't answer, and Jim sighs. It's strange, thinking Batman would take that much of a risk to actually come by and check up on him. But apparently the tentative friendship that Jim felt beginning during this past year wasn't just something he had imagined. "I'm doing as well as I can," he finally says, not the standard answer but the one that rings close to being true.

He hears a slight shift and imagines it's a nod. The good thing about Batman, Jim thinks, is that he's not one for platitudes and empty phrases. But there is a hand resting on the back of the couch now, two inches away from Jim's shoulder, and this is not a bad thing, however strange it might be.

"Speaking of old times," Jim says thoughtfully. "And I'm not saying I miss the breaking in and staplers... You somehow dealt without the suit." Batman doesn't answer, and Jim wonders if he overstepped, but hell, he's not the one breaking in through the window. "I mean, only if you intend to stick around. There's a great discussion going on back at the MCU. Montoya bet ten bucks you're off to Europe."

Batman snorts slightly, much as Jim did after Renee's suggestion. "Tell Montoya to stop wasting money."

"Already have," he shrugs. "Does it mean you are sticking around?" he adds before he stops himself. At this very moment he might sound as wistful and needy as Jimmy, but they both came to rely on Batman almost too much, and right now Jim needs all reassurance he can get.

"I never liked Europe," Batman says quietly, and Jim nods in understanding. Another pause, the skin on his neck starts itching, and he knows he's being stared at. "How are the kids doing?"

Usually, this would be an odd conversation to have with Batman, he's not the sort to inquire about other people's families. But Jim can hear the underlying guilt, it's the same one that clouds his every thought of the night Barbara died. And logically, maybe in that very moment there was nothing either of them could do, but then Jim thinks of actions and consequences, and all the wrong choices he had made that led to that point. He should have listened, he should have done so many things differently.

He sighs, shaking his head. "I have no idea. Jimmy still has nightmares. Barbara seems to be doing better."

"Watch out for her. She's keeping everything in, that's not a good thing."

"And you have a degree in child psychology since when?" Jim mutters, but his tone doesn't have any resentment that the words might suggest. Batman's right, of course, and he knows that much, but knowing that and knowing what to do with it are very different things.

Batman's hand moves slowly, carefully placed on Jim's shoulder, no gloves, just the thin cloth of Jim's shirt in the way. It's just a simple touch, a gesture of comfort, but it's such an alien concept between them that Jim almost can't stand it, wishes to shake it off. He doesn't.

Before either of them can shift, or say anything, light floods the stairs from Jimmy's bedroom. "Dad?"

"He must have had another nightmare," Jim says, and stands up, making sure he doesn't look back, starting to walk to the stairs. The moment he sets foot on the first one, Batman's raspy voice breaks the silence.

"Jim," he starts and stops, as if surprised himself at the slip of the first name, but it can't really be taken back. Jim's rooted to the spot, hand on the railing of the stairs, fingers tightening. "Tell him I'm..." he stops, and Jim nods.

"I will. Thank you," he says, knowing fully well that he's talking to an empty room.

 

The invitation, Jim will think later, should have came as no surprise, considering everything. But at the moment it arrives, he is certainly taken aback. It's addressed to the kids, not him, and printed out on an elegant paper with heavy lettering. Babs picks it up from the mailbox, along with a pile of bills and adverts, and takes out the good letter opener, the one she got from her grandmother a while ago, to open it instead of just ripping up the envelope.

"Can we go?" she asks immediately after reading, and Jim rolls his eyes at her.

"Can I at least see what it is?" She hands him the envelope, and he skims the invitation, raising his eyebrows. Of all the things he had expected, a charity event on the Gotham's main ice rink was not it. It's for a good cause, of course, the rebuilding of Gotham General, and Jim is quite sure the tickets, of which three are attached, cost a fortune. And for that exact reason, he's not entirely sure it's such a good idea.

There's another piece of paper in the envelope, addressed to him, and he unfolds it with a frown. It's titled 'before you say no', and honestly, Bruce Wayne is starting to annoy him slightly. After this, the note goes: 'I'm sure Barbara and Jimmy would enjoy the outing. I'll make sure you don't have to suffer through tedious small talk,' and is signed 'Bruce Wayne.' Scratch the slightly, concentrate on annoyance.

"So, can we go?" Barbara repeats, and calls up the expression that more often than not gets her what she wants, the pouty, wide-eyed one. Jim gives her a mild glare, and glances at Jimmy.

"What do you think?"

"I dunno. Could be fun, I guess," Jimmy says with a shrug, but he seems interested enough for Jim to know he's outvoted. Probably for the better, too, as in case he did put his foot down and refused to budge, he's sure Wayne would come up with something new and most certainly more annoying. The man is constantly surprising Jim, defying all of the previous opinions of him and more. Maybe the entire thing is not the worst idea ever. Hopefully he'll keep his word about the small talk.

This is roughly how he ends up at the charity event of the season, watching Jimmy take tentative steps on the ice, under the tutelage of one of the instructors. Barbara is standing next to the table with hot chocolate, chatting animatedly with one of Garcia's daughters, Helena, if Jim's not mistaken. For his part, Jim has successfully dodged most of the people he had wished to avoid, and got roped into just one unfortunate conversation with Judge Phillips, which was cut short when Phillips' wife dragged him away to meet someone she had went to high school with. All in all, a great success so far.

"Just slightly boring," someone says to his side, and he doesn't even need to look to know it's Wayne.

"Less so than I expected," he admits, and gratefully accepts one of the coffee cups Wayne is holding. Thankfully, there's no 'I told you so' coming with it. They stand for a moment in silence, and Jim's eyes follow Jimmy, who had managed to circle the rink without holding on to anything for support. He's flushed from the exercise, and he had lost his hat somewhere, hair sticking every which way. He'll need a haircut soon, Jim thinks, the hair is beginning to get into his eyes. But he looks like he's enjoying himself, and maybe coming to this affair wasn't a mistake.

"They seem to be having fun," Wayne says, as if reading his thoughts. There's just a tolerable amount of smugness in his voice, and Jim nods.

"They are," he says, turning slightly to look at Wayne. "Thank you."

Wayne shrugs, but there is no facade that he seems so fond of this time, and Jim wonders if this is the real Bruce Wayne he's seeing, or just another part he plays. There seems to be so many of them, judging even only from the news reports, and there's a great deal more when you actually meet the man. Jim studies him for a moment, trying to look under the polite smile. "Why do you bother?" he asks finally, deciding on the direct approach. Sometimes it does work.

"I don't think the city would manage to build the new hospital quickly enough," Wayne says, in a practiced way, as if giving a cheerful press statement. "All the other hospitals are overflowing with patients, we need Gotham General."

Jim rolls his eyes. "Do me a favour, Mr Wayne, don't pretend you don't understand," he says dryly, and gets a quick glance in return, before Wayne becomes seemingly interested in his coffee cup, turning it around, as if he was warming up his hands. When he finally speaks, his voice is lowered, close enough to a whisper that Jim has to listen closely to make out the words, and no one else would be able to overhear.

"I told you, old debts. You have been there. The night my parents got killed."

Jim probably shouldn't have started asking. He remembers that night all too well, especially now that he had seen that haunted look on Wayne's face mirrored in Jimmy, in Babs. He had tried his best to comfort young Bruce Wayne on the night his parents died, and long time after thought about that moment, and wondered if he could have done something more.

"It's not something you forget," Bruce continues, still not looking up, the cup moving slightly faster in his hands, dark liquid swirling. "But worse than remembering is thinking you could have done something different, something to stop it all. You look back and think, this was my fault. Doesn't matter that it's unreasonable, in this there is no reason."

"It wasn't. And it wasn't Jimmy's or Babs'. They can't think that," Jim says vehemently, cold shiver running down his spine.

"Of course it wasn't. Does knowing that stops you from thinking the blame is yours?" Wayne turns to look at him, his eyes filled with cold intensity, and Jim can't hold the gaze, he looks away.

"You weren't there. You can't know that it wasn't," he whispers, voice breaking, and he should be embarrassed, but he's just angry.

"Do you know it was?" Wayne asks, matter-of-fact and dead serious, and Jim's hands curl into fists, tight enough for his nails to mark the skin of his palms.

"Yes. Is that what you want to hear? Yes, it was my fault. I should have..." he stops abruptly, finally catching a glimpse of Barbara, few feet away, her face frozen in shock, eyes wide with fear. "Babs..." Jim says, turning and reaching to her, but she shakes her head, taking a step back.

"I'll..." she says, stuttering slightly. "I'll wait in the car," she finishes finally, and turns on her heel, running towards the exit.

"She needed to hear that," Wayne says quietly, stepping to stand beside Jim. "You won't think so, but she needed to hear that."

Jim doesn't even realise he's moved until his fist collides with Wayne's jaw, hard enough to throw him a shaky step back. If he had fired out from his piece he wouldn't have made a greater commotion, everyone is turning to stare at them, and he slowly relaxes his fist, shocked and terrified by his own actions.

Wayne laughs, cheerfully, and only the utter shock in his eyes tells Jim it's forced. "I fully deserved that, Commissioner," he says, loud enough for it to carry through the hall. "I do apologise. And I certainly hope everyone had enjoyed the show, but I think it's over," he says, with a bow to Jim, who can only nod, and call up a forced smile of his own. Everyone goes back to their conversations, all voices a level louder than before.

"I'm..." Jim starts, and doesn't finish.

"You should go after her," Wayne says levelly, his voice softer than the situation would warrant. Jim nods, and after a moment, he and Jimmy join Babs in the car.

She's silent throughout the way home. Jimmy tries a few topics, and Jim offers absent responses when he thinks they're expected, but the conversation is shaky and tense, and after a few awkward minutes, they give up. He watches Babs in the rearview mirror; she's staring out at the buildings they're passing, her expression inscrutable. He would give everything to know what she's thinking of, but can't bring himself to ask. She runs upstairs the moment they enter the house, and Jim listens for the thud of the doors shut with force, but it doesn't come. At least there's that.

"Jimmy, I need to talk to your sister," he says softly, reaching to ruffle Jimmy's hair. "You can put on the cartoons if you like. Would you be okay?"

Jimmy nods, his expression puzzled. Jim knows he'll have to talk to him later, too, but one thing at a time. He's not looking forward to either. Babs is not in her bedroom, and for a moment he wonders if she had locked herself in the bathroom, but soon discovers her in his and Barbara's bedroom, curled on the bed, eyes firmly shut as if she was feigning sleep.

"Barbara," he starts, sitting down on the bed, stopping himself from reaching out. She shakes her head vehemently, and shuts her eyes even harder, her entire face scrunched up. "Babs, look at me," Jim pleads, and it's one of the longest moments of his life, waiting until she does. "What I said..." he starts, and stops the moment she shifts, rising slightly, looking at him all too seriously for a girl her age.

"Did you mean it? That it was your fault. Did you mean it?"

He doesn't know what to say to that. He did, he meant it completely, but how can he explain that to his daughter? The guilt of choices made that led to that exact point, to Barbara throwing herself at the man who held her son at gunpoint, to the complete helplessness Jim felt at that moment, frozen in shock and fear, unable to move at all. How do you explain that?

He nods slowly. "I can't help it. Logic tells me I might not have been able to prevent it, but I feel I should have. I should have been able to save your mom."

Barbara's crying now, tears rolling down her face, everything she had held back finally getting out, and her next words come out between a series of sobs. "It wasn't," she says, words so distorted by her voice breaking he doesn't make them out at first. "Dad, it wasn't..." she moves, practically lunges forward, her arms thrown around his neck, holding tightly. She hides her face in Jim's shirt, the continuing tears almost soaking it through. "I miss mom," she says finally, her voice small and far away.

Jim tries to swallow the lump in his throat and doesn't succeed, and he knows he's crying now too, he can feel the hot tears spilling out, and he hides his face in Barbara's hair, holding her close as she slowly calms down into complete stillness. "I know," he mutters into her hair, and only the slow slump in her shoulders tells him she heard him. "I miss her too."

He holds her for a long while, completely losing the track of time. Finally, she pulls away, and dabs at her eyes with a slightly sheepish expression, but her look is a tad clearer and brighter now.

There's a soft knock on the open door, and Jim looks up to see Jimmy, giving them a rather disgusted look. "Are you guys done crying?" he asks, and Jim laughs, blinking quickly, taking off his glasses and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "I made popcorn," Jimmy volunteers, and Babs is rolling her eyes now, but she perks up slightly.

"Bring the bowl here. Babs, choose a movie," he says, and looks around for the remote, finding it on the night table. In the past he vetoed the idea of a tv set in the bedroom, but Barbara had claimed the news helped her fall asleep. Now he was kind of glad he let himself be persuaded. Babs curls up at his side, head resting on his shoulder, hair all tangled up in a way that makes Jim wonder if she even sees the screen through the tresses falling onto her face. It probably doesn't matter anyway, the movie she had chosen is the one they had seen dozens of times already. Jimmy sits up, all but hugging a bowl of popcorn, holding it close and eating in the mechanical movie theater way.

Eventually, they fall asleep, the world outside the window darkening slowly.

In the morning, the kids are up before Jim is, and busy with some papers scattered on the coffee table. Babs has her reading glasses on, and Jimmy is fighting with some coloured pieces of paper they're trying to glue to the larger sheet and which keeps on sticking to his fingers instead. It's probably some school project he should be aware of, but before he can ask, the doorbell chimes, and he goes to answer it.

"Before you say anything," Bruce Wayne offers instead of a greeting, speaking a little bit faster than usual, as if trying to say his lines before Jim interrupts him. "I brought donuts."

Wordlessly, Jim takes a step back and opens the doors widely, letting the man in. If you can't beat them, he thinks, you might as well invite them in and ask if they want coffee.

"Actually, I brought my own," Wayne says, placing two boxes he's carrying onto the kitchen counter, unloading the cups first. "Wasn't sure you'd actually be very welcoming," he adds with a small smile. His jaw is just slightly discolored, very faint bruise disturbing the otherwise immaculate look, dark gray polo shirt and jeans, which is the most casual Jim had ever seen him.

"I'm sorry about that," Jim says, and finds out that he actually does mean it, a little.

"I've had worse." Jim finds it hard to believe, and it must show on his face, because Wayne smirks. "Polo. Vicious sport."

There is something in his tone that makes it into a private joke, one Jim seems to be invited into but doesn't really understand. "I'll take your word for it, Mr Wayne."

"Bruce. Please," he offers, and before Jim can protest, Babs and Jimmy march into the kitchen, guided by their incredible talents of detecting frosting from miles away. Barbara nods at Bruce with a half smile, and Jimmy just waves to him on his way to the box with donuts.

And for the life of him, Jim can't say how it really happens, but an hour later he finds himself not only working on Jimmy's school project alongside Bruce Wayne, sticking stripes of foil to a cartoon cut-out, making one very shiny zebra, but also agreeing to come by the Wayne Manor on the weekend, so the kids can check out the library. He's not sure how it all actually happens, but he looks at Barbara protesting laughingly against a blue giraffe, and Jimmy working out a way to reattach a trunk of an elephant that accidentally got cut off, and he doesn't mind not knowing.

 

Second week of December, Jim's still not sure how did he arrive at this. 'This' includes a lot of things.

His job, which is a neverending array of paperwork that he got actually reasonably efficient at, he signs the reports, prepares the proposals, goes through the rosters and forms, and even manages to get them done on time. The last six times he had pointed a gun at anything, it was at the shooting range, and he doesn't even miss the field so much. He does miss the adrenaline rush, sometimes, but he finally knows what coming home before it's late and dark feels like. Due to this he hadn't seen Batman for a long while, he's not exactly a daytime creature. And with the hunt for him still on, he doesn't exactly show up all that often. Jim would have even considered the widespread rumour that the Bat had moved to Metropolis, if not for the fact that occasionally, files or evidence magically appear on Stephens' or Montoya's desks. Jim tries not to be envious of them, as it really sounds ridiculous.

'This' includes, and doesn't limit to, the fact that more often than not, Bruce Wayne visits his house at least twice a week. Sometime during the last month Wayne had become Bruce, and the visits stopped being an odd nuisance and Jim had started to actually enjoy them. Because for all of his annoying qualities, starting from the inability to let a double entendre go, ending with the way he picks out only the pecan nuts from the bowl, Bruce certainly improves on further acquaintance. The kids certainly like him.

At the beginning, Jim thought this would pass. That after he repaid the debts he imagined he had, Bruce would move on, and Jim and the kids would fall back into the old routines. But after over a month, Bruce is still there to play computer games with Jimmy, or help Barbara with practicing her role for the upcoming school play. Jim still has no idea why Bruce cares so much, but is incredibly grateful he does.

It doesn't come as much of a surprise, when on the day of the first snow, at the breakfast table, Barbara starts to discuss their Christmas plans. "We should have a real tree this year. Can we?"

Jim thinks on that for a moment, and nods. "I think it can be arranged. But we could get the small one you can later plant in the garden."

The next question, he should have seen coming, but it still takes him by surprise. "Can we invite Bruce?"

"I'm sure he has other plans, Babs. And even if he doesn't, he probably spends the Christmas with Alfred."

"We could invite Alfred, too," Jimmy says, and Jim has a feeling he's getting ganged up on. The kids took to Alfred with a speed of light, trailing after him throughout the Wayne Manor on their first visit, asking questions about anything and everything, which the butler answered with amazing patience. He also is stocking them up with gingerbread cookies whenever he can, which Jim pretends to know nothing about.

"I'll ask. But don't be disappointed if they can't come, alright?"

He calls that very evening, and assures Bruce he doesn't need to feel obliged to come, but the he promised the kids he'd ask. Bruce is silent for a moment, and when he speaks, Jim can hear a smile in his voice.

"So, you're saying you don't want me there, Jim? I'm deeply wounded. I'll have to spend the Christmas alone in a great big mansion. Like something from a Charles Dickens novel. Alfred will approve."

Jim rolls his eyes. "That man is a saint, for spending so much time with you," he mutters. "Fine. Here we go. Would you do us the great honour and pleasure of spending Christmas with us?"

"But of course," Bruce says smugly, and that's about the moment Jim has another call waiting and disconnects after a brief apology. During the talk with Garcia about the latest budget cuts, he remembers what was the other thing he meant to tell Bruce, and calls again few seconds later.

"Forgot something?"

"Yes. Don't overdo on the gifts."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Jim," Bruce says, but he sounds all too casual for Jim's liking.

"Shit, you bought the presents already, haven't you?"

"Still no idea. I think the line is breaking up. Losing you here," there's a very unconvincing series of noises, and Jim sighs.

"Nothing expensive. Expensive by my standards, not yours. I mean it."

"I'm sorry Jim, I can't hear you very well. If you can hear me, just wanted to say I'll call you later. Bye."

Jim closes the cellphone with a snap, deliberating whether he should call Alfred and hope that at least he could talk some sense into Bruce, but finally deciding to hope Wayne already had some reason. It is a possibility.

Later that day, when he tells the kids they will have guests after all, Jimmy goes quiet for a moment. Jim waits patiently for his son to mull over whatever it is on his mind, but nothing prepares him for Jimmy looking up with hope and asking if they could invite Batman, too.

He doesn't know what to say. After a moment, Jimmy's brow furrows in disappointment, and Jim reaches out to touch his shoulder gently. "If I see him, I'll ask him. But..."

"I just want to ask him," Jimmy says weakly, and Jim won't admit to that out loud, but for a brief moment, he wants that too, to be able to see and talk to someone he considers one of his closest friends, as pathetic as it sounds given that he had never even seen the man's face, and none of their conversations took longer than a few minutes.

"I'll do my best," he tells Jimmy, and this must be enough.

He does his best, too. He orders Montoya and Stephens to tell Batman, in case of his appearance, that Jim really needs to talk to him. He even makes use of one of the nights when the kids are both at a birthday party down the street, and goes up to the roof of the MCU, and waits until the sun sets, but all he gets is a slight cold that sees him through the week. He doesn't think it would happen.

But then, the day before the Christmas' Eve, Jim walks out in the evening to dump the trash, mostly the leftover of gift paper, which turned out to be most of the gift paper after Jimmy took his turn with the scissors. The street is quiet, covered in snow that had just stopped falling, but he has the familiar feeling of unease, of being watched. He relaxes, slowly, realising who is watching him.

"I've started to wonder if maybe there was some truth to the Metropolis story," Jim offers, walking up the stairs of the porch, and leaning against the fire escape. He doesn't take time looking searchingly into the shadows, but even at a glance he can tell Batman is wearing non-descript black clothes and just the cowl, the rest of the suit gone. Definitely easier to discard in case of pursuit.

"None whatsoever. Gotham..." Batman shrugs, not finishing, but Jim knows what he was going to say anyway. "You wanted to see me?"

So, the news did get around. Jim wonders briefly, how much surveillance does the Bat have, what sources, but decides he doesn't care, the important thing is, he has a way of knowing. "I thought it would be nice to know you were still alive, yes. But mostly, someone else wanted to see you."

"Jimmy," Batman nods. Jim is curious, fact, but he's glad he doesn't have to explain this. "I'm here now."

Jim opens the doors to the house and yells for Jimmy to come down. When the boy walks out to the porch, he freezes in his tracks, and then rushes forward, gaining momentum. Jim would normally laugh at the moment of awkward hesitation on Batman's side, before he lets himself be hugged, his hand gently patting Jimmy's shoulder. But now he doesn't laugh at all, the way Jimmy's clinging to the Bat, it resonates with his own relief at the Bat showing up, being here.

"You wanted to see me?" Batman says, and it sounds just like when he asked Jim, like he used to during the business meetings up on the roof of the MCU.

Jimmy nods, taking a while to voice the request, Jim can't quite catch it, it's so quiet.

"I would like to," the Bat offers, crouching down to look at Jimmy. "But I'm afraid I have other plans." His voice is less gravelly than Jim remembers, more human, probably for Jimmy's benefit. "But, thank you."

"Do you spend Christmas with your family?" Jimmy asks, and Jim covers his surprise with a cough, getting a quick look from Batman for that.

"In a way," he answers, and his glove-less hand brushes away Jimmy's hair. He straightens up, nodding at Jim. "I should be going," he says, and Jim almost snorts again, but doesn't bother with the polite cough this time. Batman announcing his exit, that's a new one.

"Jimmy, go help your sister set the table for dinner. I'll be right in." Jimmy hesitates, but with a final look and smile at the Bat, gets back inside. Jim raises his eyebrows.

"In a way?" he asks, and Batman's lips twitch slightly, and it could be the first actual hint of a smile Jim sees on his face.

"Good night, Jim," the Bat says, and slowly, deliberately, turns to walk away while Jim is still watching. It's still walking off in the middle of the conversation, yes, but somehow, Jim thinks it's an improvement. He shakes his head and walks inside.

On the crisp Christmas Day morning, a black Bentley pulls over into the driveway, and the kids run out of the house before Jim even manages to get up from the couch. It's just a few minutes past nine, and they're already hopped up on so much candy the sugar high will probably last till April. Alfred unloads the trunk, giving the kids lighter bags to carry. There's a lot less of things than Jim expected.

"You actually managed to restrain yourself?" he asks Bruce, and before an answer can be voiced, Alfred shakes his head. "Do I want to know?" Jim turns to him, and the older man shrugs.

"Three more bags back at the Wayne Manor, sir. I had to lock them in the basement and hide the key."

"I will find it soon," Bruce volunteers cheerfully, picking up something that looks like a cake, carefully wrapped in foil.

"How much sugar did he already have?" Jim asks, ignoring him, and Alfred tilts his head, considering.

"Probably a little more than Master Jimmy and Miss Barbara."

"Fantastic," Jim says dryly, but he's smiling. Babs is finishing arranging the gifts under the tree, making sure all of them have cards. Jimmy watches Alfred unpack the cake, and they're deep in conversation about Christmas carols. Bruce hands Barbara one last gift from the bags they brought with Alfred, and straightens up, moving to stand next to Jim, leaning against the bookshelf.

"I just wanted to say, thanks for inviting us. Alfred is thrilled," Bruce says, and Jim smiles.

"We're always glad to have Alfred around," he offers, and glances sideways, Bruce's face blurry when Jim's not looking through his glasses. "With you here, they won't feel so..." he pauses, shrugging, the rest of the sentence disintegrating around the lump in his throat.

Bruce nods in understanding. "I see you set the table for six," he offers, only seemingly changing the topic. Jim nods. "Good. They should remember."

"They will," he says, a repetition of the promise he made to himself, and to Barbara, days after her death. Babs had cried last night, putting up the decorations they made with their mom last year, but he doesn't worry about her tears, they can be a good thing. Babs always seems better afterwards, as if she had something heavy roll off her shoulders. The tears come rarely now, too. Jimmy's nightmares are slowly melting away, they're becoming less terrifying, easier to wake up from. Last night, after Batman's visit, was the first time he slept soundly through the entire night, no nightmares, no waking up from the fear the nightmares would start. They're dealing.

And a lot of it, Jim knows, he actually owes to Bruce. They would have picked themselves up sooner or later, but they're doing this well only because they had help, people watching over them.

"Bruce, it's snowing again!" Barbara squeals excitedly, watching the falling flakes through the window.

Bruce smiles, taking a step forward to join her on the windowsill, but Jim reaches out, touching his shoulder briefly to get his attention. "Thank you," he says quietly.

 

The spring comes late, as all springs in Gotham do. By the time April rolls around, Jim almost can't recall the time when Bruce Wayne wasn't a frequent guest in their house, but at roughly the beginning of April tabloids belatedly catch up with the fact that there are fewer sightings of Gotham's prince in restaurants and pubs with a different actress slash model each week. Speculations start, everyone guessing for whom does Bruce Wayne stay home, top choices ranging from Julie Madison to Scarlet Johansson.

Barbara cuts out every article and places it in her scrapbook, teasing Bruce mercilessly. After withstanding about two hours of her naming every A-list actress as his potential love interest, Bruce stands up, bows theatrically to Barbara, and takes her hand in his. "I believe that in my heart there's only room for one beautiful lady, Miss Gordon," he says, really over the top on dramatic display. Babs is laughing so hard she almost falls off the chair, but she's busy rolling her eyes at the same time.

Which Jim considers that a good thing, at least she'll get immune to attempts at charm, and considering her thirteenth birthday is fast approaching, and she insists on having boys at the party, this is becoming an issue.

When she broached the subject for the first time, Jim just stared at her, uncomprehending. "Like who?" he asked, when he got his voice back, and she shrugged, pointedly not looking at him.

"Oh, I don't know. Like, Steve, from school. Or, Jeff, or Charlie," she waves her hand vaguely, as if she didn't care exactly, but she blushed at the first name, and Jimmy offered a loud snort from his place on the couch, and Jim wonders if shooting the so-called Steve is completely out of question.

"If I get Judge Reynolds, I won't even do jail time," he tells Bruce later, when Barbara is busy talking to Sophie Clark on the phone, discussing the guests list. "He has four daughters, you know."

Bruce is laughing at him, but doing his best to hide it under a cough. "You know, all you have to do at this point, is let Jimmy stay at the party. Nothing ruins the mood like the younger brother. In fact, one time in college, sophomore year..." he starts, and Jim swats his shoulder.

"Really don't want to know," he groans.

Bruce gives him a steady gaze that implies he's going to pronounce something utterly ridiculous. "You know, that's exactly what the girl said."

Jim stares, then shakes his head, laughing. "Anyway," he says after a moment, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with his sleeve, before looking back at Bruce, who has a very pleased smile on his face for some reason. "Do I need to remind you the rule about the gifts?"

"Of course not, I had it hammered into my head all too many times. But remind me, they're supposed to get a car for thirteenth or sixteenth birthday? I always forget."

Jim doesn't even bother with an answer, just gives him a stern glare that never seems to work anyway. Bruce looks like he wanted to say something more, looking at Jim searchingly, but finally he just stands up. "I need coffee. You?"

"Yes, because I want to stay up all night, considering all the outcomes of allowing Babs to invite boys over," he mutters, standing up as well. "Fine. Make it black."

Two days later, Bruce calls him at work, right about the time he's going insane with trying to make sense out of Montoya's handwriting. "I want to run something by you," he says, and the hesitation is enough for Jim to become slightly worried.

"You are not buying her a car. Or a plane, for that matter."

Bruce laughs slightly, and Jim knows he's shaking his head now. "Damn. But honestly, you have five minutes? I might be able to convince you in person, I think."

Jim glances at the clock. "You're in luck, I need a break anyway. Where?"

"I'll pick you up in three minutes."

"You're parked around the corner, aren't you?" Jim asks suspiciously, but all he gets is the dial tone.

Bruce is driving himself, instead of having Alfred do so, so the car is far from discreet, and Jim is rolling his eyes the moment it pulls over by the main entrance. "What's the emergency?" he asks, and Bruce shrugs.

"You'll see," he says, flooring the accelerator, and Jim bites the comment he has on the tip of his tongue. From experience he knows that complaining at the speed would only make Bruce think it was a challenge not to stop at any lights, but he's still gritting his teeth all the way to the Manor. And to be honest, he still doesn't care for the mystery, but arguing with Bruce when he gets something into his head is rather pointless. He'll know soon enough.

The mystery, once they get inside the Manor, turns out to be small, incredibly fluffy, and sleeping soundly at Alfred's feet.

"You got her a dog?" Jim asks incredulously, and Bruce shrugs, words coming a tad too fast, as if he wanted to get it all out before interruption.

"He's housebroken, no troubles at all. And she had been talking about Sophie's new puppy for about four weeks now, that's some heavy hinting going on. And I do think she's responsible enough, but if you don't think it's a good idea, the dog can stay here, they visit often enough..." he pauses when Jim crouches, scratching the puppy behind it's floppy ear. The dog stands on his hind legs, resting the paws on Jim's knee, waging his tail happily, trying his best to lick Jim's fingers. "You like the dog," Bruce says accusingly, and Jim laughs.

"I like the dog," he agrees, patting the fluffy head. "Housebroken, you say?"

Alfred snorts. "Behaves better than Master Bruce, if you ask me, sir."

"No one did," Bruce says cheerfully.

Jim spies a small ball on the floor. Apparently Bruce's problem with showering people with gifts extends to the dogs, too. Jim picks it up and throws it, watching the puppy pad after it, paws sliding on the slick floor. "You shouldn't have," he says, looking up at Bruce. "But she'll love it," he adds with a wide smile. Bruce nods, smiling back, and reaches out to help Jim to his feet.

For a moment, they stand close, and Bruce looks like he wants to say something, his body shifting slightly, and Jim can't really read his expression. Before he can ask, Bruce lets go of his hand and steps back. "So, it's settled," he says, his voice a little rough, as if darkened with upcoming cold. Then he shakes his head, and he moves away, looking after the dog, then back at Jim, smiling widely, and for a brief second, Jim thinks there's something wrong with the smile, it doesn't quite reach the eyes, much like Bruce's 'public' smiles. "And I'm sorry, Jim, I just remembered I have a meeting about something I have no idea about, but they insist I should," he gives a good theatrical shudder, and nods at Alfred. "Would you mind driving Jim back to work?"

Jim wants to protest, say that if it's any trouble, he can take a taxi, but he had learned that it doesn't really work on Bruce, or on Alfred for that matter. He puzzles over the sudden change for a while, but then forgets the issue as soon as he has to get back to reports. Montoya's handwriting has not improved in his absence, sadly.

On the day of Babs' birthday, Bruce comes by in the early afternoon, few hours before the party is supposed to start. He had already apologised for not being able to make the party, and Babs was only slightly disappointed; they had learned the hard way, one time at a cinema, that Bruce had caused unnecessary commotion in public, much like a major celebrity. He brings the dog, wrapped in a blanket, and Barbara squeals her lungs out, and she and Jimmy abandon the decorations instantly, all their attention on the dog, and the list of names they're coming up with

"Want to help me with this?" Jim asks, raising his hand with a serpentine, waving it meekly, and Bruce shakes his head.

"As fun as it looks, I have a plane to catch. We're sealing a deal with a French company, and Lucius thought it would be a good idea for me to show up." Jim's pretty sure that's true, but for some reason, it sends a cold shiver down his spine, like something is wrong, and he can't put his finger on it.

"Barbara's play is in two days."

"I'll be back in two days," Bruce says, smiling, and finally, it's real. "I wouldn't miss it," he nods at Jim, and goes to say goodbye to the kids, and is soon gone. Jim can't for the world figure out why, but he walks to the doors and opens them, watching the car drive away. Something is really wrong, and he doesn't know what to do.

After a long moment he does what he can, and closes the doors, walking back to the kids and the dog, calling up a smile.

Two days later, two hours before the play, Jim drives the kids to the school, grasping the wheel a bit too tightly. He's fidgeting more than Babs is, and she's the one who's supposed to be nervous, but he had called Bruce's cell and nothing, and Alfred had just informed him that Bruce wasn't home, and no, Alfred had no idea where he went. To Jim's growing worry, Alfred seemed annoyed, which usually meant he greatly disapproved of what Bruce was doing.

And whatever he was doing, he was not sitting next to Jimmy in the second row at the school auditorium. Even when the lights go out, he's nowhere to be seen, and as Barbara stumbles upon her first line as her eyes scan the audience, Jim finds his worry turn to irritation, then anger. Babs is really not good in the first act, her usual energy gone, but she gains momentum, and Jim can see the determination in the way she throws her hair over her shoulder and plunges into the play. He's never been more proud. And still angry.

In the intermission, he finds Robert's mom, and asks if she'd mind if Jimmy stayed at her place for the night. She smiles and agrees, asking if everything is alright. Jim nods, and lies about work emergency, and she grows serious and promises to drive Jimmy home in the morning. Barbara is supposed to have a post-play party at a fellow actress' home, it's all arranged already, and she will stay over for the night as well.

After the play ends, he finds his daughter and tells her she was wonderful, and she laughs and tells him not to lie because it does show, but she seems happy now. It doesn't lessen his irritation. He drives to the Manor, eyes fixed firmly on the road, pointedly staying well below the speed limit. He doesn't really want to end up crashing into a tree because he's angry at Bruce Wayne. Seems counterproductive.

Alfred opens the doors, and, after giving Jim an unreadable look, steps aside wordlessly. Jim nods at him, trying for a polite smile, arriving probably at something more akin to a grimace.

"Master Wayne is in the study," Alfred offers flatly, and Jim thanks him, before heading in the given direction.

Bruce is standing by the window, still, or already, wearing a coat, as if he had just arrived or was just about to leave. He doesn't turn as Jim enters, but his head bows slightly.

"Where the hell were you?" Jim asks, closing the doors a little too loudly, and Bruce winces. Jim steps further inside, walks around the desk, he's going to have Bruce look at him as he says this. "Why didn't you at least call?"

"I didn't think..." Bruce starts and stops abruptly, and it pisses Jim off even more.

"Of course you didn't," he says, shaking his head. "She completely butchered the first act, because you weren't there, you know?" he says quietly, and Bruce nods.

"She got better in the second. And the monologue turned out fantastic," he offers with a small smile, and Jim's jaw drops down slightly.

"You saw it."

"Of course. I couldn't not," Bruce says, and Jim believes him, and this confuses him even more.

"You didn't come to talk to her afterwards, though. Why?" he asks, and Bruce looks away.

"I can't..." Bruce starts, and Jim's hands curl into fists.

"You don't get to do that. You don't get to waltz into their lives, and walk out whenever you want. You don't get to pick the moments you want to be there for them, and then disappear. Not with my kids," he says hotly, stepping forward. "If you're done with the charity project, fine. They'll deal. But then it ends now, and you don't raise their hopes," he says, quiet and keeping himself as calm as possible, but Bruce flinches as if he was yelling.

"I'm sorry, Jim, I..."

"I'd really want to know what the hell you're thinking," Jim mutters, shaking his head.

Bruce looks at him for a long moment, the silence stretching between them, tense and heavy. Then, in a flash, his expression changes into a grim determination, as if he made a decision and knew it was wrong. Before Jim can comprehend what's going on, Bruce steps closer to him, his lips covering Jim's, the kiss anything but gentle and hesitating. Jim doesn't know what's happening, his hands grasp Bruce's shirt, but he's too confused to decide whether he's pushing him away or pulling him closer, and Bruce's teeth are grazing his lips, tongue working its way into his mouth, and then Bruce pulls away, breathing harshly.

"This. This is what I was thinking," he says, voice rasp, lips swollen, and Jim can only stare at him blankly.

"I..." he starts, and stops, his mind completely cleared out of any coherent thought.

"Let yourself out," Bruce offers, and turns, leaving the room before Jim gets his voice back.

Of course, even when he finally does get his voice back, sometime around when he's pulling into his driveway back home, his thoughts are still in turmoil. He walks into the darkened house, dropping his keys in the bowl, taking off his coat. The dog, still nameless as Jimmy and Babs can't agree on a good name for him, comes to greet him, and Jim pats his head absently. Mechanically, he walks into the kitchen to make coffee, then sits on the couch, dog climbing onto his lap, curling up. They stay like this for a long while, as Jim tries to make sense of the entire thing.

 

The main problem is, Jim supposes, that he really didn't see that one coming. Actually figuring out what the hell happened takes him a lot longer than it should, given the pride he always took in his detective skills. And even then it still confuses the hell out of him, the very idea that Bruce Wayne of all people would be attracted to him is, frankly, ridiculous.

Apparently being ridiculous doesn't make it impossible.

Bruce has apparently chosen avoidance, out of the possible coping techniques, and it could be for the best, but Jim feels strangely disappointed. It's not that he's attracted to Bruce, he had never even thought about it, but...

Well, fine. The nagging voice in his head that usually annoys the hell out of him keeps calling him a liar, but that's not the point. He might have had a passing thought, in the detached way he notices that certain people are quite attractive.

He sighs, leaning back in his chair, pushing the reports away, closing the folders for the day.

He got used to having Bruce Wayne in his life, had come to really like him. And now, maybe this is for the better, but he doesn't like it one bit.

Getting home takes him longer than usual, Friday traffic is quite awful, and when he walks in, Babs and Jimmy are already back from school, he can hear them laughing. To his great surprise, Bruce is there, sprawled on the floor, letting the dog crawl over him. He looks up when Jim enters, and nods slowly, his expression careful and his smile hesitant.

"Dad, we called him Biscuit," Babs offers, placing a dog treat on Bruce's shoulder, and laughing as the puppy makes his way there, sniffing.

"Finally," Jim mutters. "One more day, and I would settle this once and for all and name him Spot."

"He doesn't even have any spots," Jimmy points out. "And he likes biscuits," he adds.

"Biscuit it is. Did my kids remember to offer you something to drink?" he asks Bruce, and gets a shrug in return. "Coffee, then?" He makes his way to the kitchen before Bruce answers, he does know that coffee is always a good idea.

After a moment, Bruce joins him, leaning against the counter, as if waiting for something. Jim turns to look at him searchingly, taking a moment. For once, Bruce has not bothered to school down his face into whatever expression he thinks necessary, and his emotions are displayed there for Jim to see. Apology, hope, fear, Jim sees it all, and after a moment, he nods.

"So, are you staying for dinner?" he asks, smiling softly. "I warn you, it's take-out night."

"Oh, I know. That's why I came, much better than your cooking," Bruce says cheerfully, then grows serious for one moment more. "Jim... I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking, at all. I am here. I will be here."

Jim nods. "I know. And now, if you could be there," he points to the couch and the kids. "And stop them overfeeding the poor dog, I would be very grateful."

It's pretty much back to normal after that. And no, even Jim doesn't believe this, he's never been good at lying, not to others and not to himself. It's kind of annoying, the way he had been perfectly fine with being oblivious, but one shocking kiss, and his good sense is fried. It's as if the sensation of Bruce's lips and fingers was etched into his skin, and it doesn't fade.

And the worst thing is, Bruce doesn't seem affected at all, it's as if he had decided to ignore whatever it was between them and with that decision it disappeared. He laughs with the kids, spoils them rotten as usual, and teases Jim constantly. It's beyond annoying.

Two weeks of this, and Jim is starting to consider his options, but has no time to actually decide on anything, as one Wednesday evening, few minutes after dinner, he gets a phone call from Stephens that makes him swear, and then immediately call Bruce.

"Could you come over and stay with the kids for a while?" he asks absently, his shoulder pressing the phone to his ear as he's putting on the coat.

"Sure. Something wrong?" There's immediate worry in Bruce's voice, and Jim shrugs, taking the phone into his hand again.

"Not with the kids, don't worry. There was a robbery at a corner deli downtown, Montoya got shot. Stephens says it's not life-threatening, at least, but I need to check up on her," he explains quietly. The worst part is that she wasn't even on duty, just making a grocery run, wrong place, wrong time. He hates any one of his people getting hurt, but this makes it even worse.

"I can be there in ten minutes."

"They can stay alone for twenty," Jim says, rolling his eyes. "You remember there are speed limits in this city?"

"Details," Bruce sounds distant, as if he was already moving, possibly putting on his own coat. "Ten minutes. Don't worry."

"I worry every time you drive," Jim tells him pointedly, and disconnects, calling for Barbara to let her know he's leaving, and that Bruce would be coming by shortly. She gives him a slightly pointed look that says that she's thirteen and doesn't need a baby sitter, but it's belied by the happy smile for the thought of Bruce coming over.

Montoya's injury turns out to be indeed not very serious, and she's already pressing the attending doctor as to when she can get out of the hospital. She also manages to rope Jim into getting her a cheeseburger after she complains for half an hour about the hospital food. Stephens just rolls his eyes and says that he had been on two donuts runs already, and he's really glad it's not serious, but he's going to strangle her soon. Jim stays long enough to talk to the doctor, and then tells Renee to take care and drives back home, leaving Stephens on baby-sitting duties, which he doesn't appreciate, but Montoya seems happy about.

When he gets home, it's well past the kids' bedtime, and he wonders if Bruce let the stay up, but the house is almost completely silent and dark, only the tv screen in the living room giving a blue light, soundless. Jim walks in quietly, and heads up, checking on the kids. They're both soundly asleep, Barbara's book in her lap, her glasses still on her nose. Jim puts them away, and switches off the night light, then heads back down, where Bruce seems to be asleep as well, sprawled on the couch.

Jim's about to reach out and prod Bruce's shoulder, but he hesitates for a brief moment, just looking down, at the smooth lines of Bruce's face. He looks more relaxed now than Jim has ever seen him, and this is strange, as Bruce Wayne seems to be always at ease. Apparently not.

"You planning to stand there long?" Bruce asks, not opening his eyes, and Jim flinches, blushing.

"I thought you were asleep."

"I was," Bruce confirms, opening his eyes and sitting up. "Then someone was standing over me and I got a little bit worried."

"Sorry," Jim says, moving to sit down on the couch, making Bruce scoot over. "The kids didn't cause you any trouble?"

"None. You know, I might be starting to tolerate them," Bruce offers dryly, and Jim gives him the expected eyeroll. "How's Montoya?"

"Her usual self."

"That's good. Probably," he looks at Jim for a moment, then sighs. "What is it, Jim?"

The way his thigh is pressed against Jim's side is distracting, almost too much, and yet, Jim doesn't want to move. "I was wondering... are you busy tomorrow at lunch? We could go out."

Bruce shrugs, smiling slightly. "Sure. Letting the kids play hooky from school?" he asks, and Jim shakes his head slowly. He hates having to spell it out, especially since he's still not sure it's a good idea, but... it may be worth a try.

"I meant you and me," he says, and his hands are sweating, and honestly, it's been a long while since he had last asked anyone out, and he really would have nothing against it staying that way. "I meant..." he starts, and he can tell exactly when Bruce gets it, because first his eyes widen in surprise, and then his entire face closes up, all expression schooled down.

"Jim," he says, shaking his head. "Don't do that."

"What?"

"I'm fine. And whatever I feel for you won't change anything. Not unless you let it," he offers blankly, and Jim's stomach tightens almost painfully. And yet, there's a part of him that's all too glad at the soft admission of feelings, apparently something beyond the attraction, and he should be ashamed of himself, but he's just kind of lightheaded.

"Bruce," he starts, and then decides on a different approach. He half expects, as he moves forward, that Bruce would pull away, but nothing like that happens, and Jim's lips softly brush Bruce's, the hesitant kiss that should have been their first. And then, just as he's about to pull away, he feels Bruce relaxing, the tension Jim had not realised was even there easing away. Bruce's fingers thread Jim's hair, pulling him closer, the kiss turning hungry and enthusiastic, and they're both shifting closer, taking their time, their tongues exploring each other's mouth, mapping them intimately.

Bruce groans, deep in his throat, a low sound that sends a shiver down Jim's spine, and then he pulls away reluctantly, drawing a disappointed sigh from Jim. "Fine, lunch tomorrow," Bruce agrees, and he's smiling, wide and happy, and Jim's heart skips a beat, because if he had thought he had seen Bruce Wayne smile before, he had not seen this. "I should go," he adds, and Jim nods.

"You should," he agrees, and doesn't move, his hand still resting on Bruce's arm, their mouth still too close for his breathing to calm down.

Bruce laughs, and kisses Jim briefly, just a touch of his lips this time, and then stands up. "I'll pick you up at work tomorrow."

"Sounds like a plan," Jim agrees, and, as the doors close behind Bruce, lets his head fall against the back of the couch. Somehow, he can't stop smiling.

 

Jim hadn't been this worried about a lunch in a very long time. In fact, he can't really remember, his dates with Barbara had been wonderfully awkward at first, but they quickly found their ease. And it didn't seem so terrifying them, in his mid-twenties, as the thought of, well, dating, seemed now, almost twenty years later.

He's even absentminded enough to switch the kids' lunches as he packs them, and Babs gets the peanut butter and jelly sandwich she proclaims to be too childish, and Jimmy is very much not impressed with ham and cheese sandwich he finds in his box.

He's quite ashamed for being grateful that Montoya is absent, as much as the cause for the absence is regrettable. But she would make fun of him for hours, or at least till the lunch break.

Bruce arrives few minutes earlier than Jim expects him, and if Jim hadn't learned how to read it, even that little bit, before now, he wouldn't have noticed the mirrored nervousness, the slight hesitation in every move. For the first twenty minutes or so, it's awful. And then Jim, from the lack of anything else to say, admits to the sandwich mishap, and Bruce laughs, telling Jim of how he caught Babs eating the peanut butter out of the jar some time ago, and she admitted that she really misses it, but can't be caught dead with 'kids sandwiches' in school.

They talk about everything and nothing after this, and it's so easy that Jim starts to think that maybe they have been already dating for months now, and he didn't really notice.

And after lunch, when Bruce asks if he should drive Jim back to work, Jim just shrugs, not looking up for a moment. "Actually, I think I'm in mood for some coffee."

Bruce looks at him searchingly, as if trying to figure out a puzzle, a hint of disbelieving smile in his eyes. "I know a place," he says, and as they make their way back to the car, his fingers brush the back of Jim's hand not at all by accident. Once they're granted the safe haven of the car's tinted windows, Bruce shifts closer, his hand cupping the side of Jim's face, still unsure, and Jim nods, his breathing harsh already, as if just Bruce's close proximity was enough to intoxicate him. He really hadn't felt like that in a very long time.

The third kiss is once again different than the ones before, they move together, closing the distance, Jim's lips parting even before Bruce's tongue can demand entrance. It's slow, almost lazy, as if they had all the time in the world, Bruce's fingers running through Jim's hair, then resting on the back of his neck, Jim's hand grasping the cloth of Bruce's shirt.

"That place you know," Jim mutters, and Bruce laughs, nodding against Jim's neck.

"Could be my place," he agrees, and waits until Jim smiles to let out a soft breath. "Jim, you better be sure," he says softly.

"I think I am," he says wonderingly. It amazes even him, but he is. This is a good thing, of that, he's certain.

Upon entering the Wayne Manor's kitchen, Alfred gives them one look, before turning to put the coffee maker on, and then nod at Jim on his way out. Jim could swear that the butler is smiling smugly, but he doesn't really feel up to calling him on it. "Do you sometimes get the feeling he knows too much?" Jim asks, and Bruce laughs, long and hard, shaking his head.

"You don't know the half of it," he says, and moves towards Jim, kissing him again, and this time there's a purpose in a way his teeth graze Jim's lower lip, in the way his hands just brush against Jim's arms, traveling down. Jim pulls him closer, stepping back until he can feel the kitchen counter behind him, the cold surface in stark contrast to the hot skin he just started to expose, pushing Bruce's tie aside.

"Jim," Bruce groans, low and harsh, and only makes Jim want to hear more, taste the sounds as they form on Bruce's lips. To his disappointment, Bruce moves away reluctantly, and there's a thoughtful look on his face that Jim doesn't really like.

"What is it?"

"I need to show you something," he says, and Jim smirks, but Bruce just shakes his head, holding back the immediate smile. "No, I'm serious. I should have told you a long while ago, but..." he shrugs, letting his voice fade. He pulls at Jim's hand, guiding him out of the kitchen and into the study, and Jim frowns all the way there.

"You're starting to scare me," he offers, trying for a light tone, but not quite getting there. Bruce walks to the piano in the corner, and Jim's frown deepens into a more confused one. "You play?" he asks, still watching Bruce carefully.

"A very little. Don't tell Babs, she'll try to make me practice with her." He plays a few notes, and Jim's about to say that it's indeed very little, but the words disappear when one of the bookshelves moves aside.

"Bruce?" he asks, and gets a serious look in return.

"Come on in," Bruce waves his hand in a grand sweeping gesture but he's hesitant, and clearly worried. Jim gives him another searching glance, and steps in, into what turns out to be a crude elevator, carrying them into deep darkness. Then the lights are turned on, and Jim gasps.

He sees the bike, first, it's parked to the side, but it's too familiar not to draw his eyes immediately. Only then he looks around; at the screens, the work tables, the cage with the suit. The realisation is immediate, he doesn't doubt his eyes. Bruce is Batman, the thought just explodes in his brain, as if he had always have the pieces to put this together, but it was only now forming the whole picture. He turns to look at Bruce, who's standing behind him with his shoulders slumped, his face twisted into a worried grimace.

"I'm sorry," he says, and Jim wonders about it, but before he can voice the 'for what?' that's about to roll off his tongue, Bruce continues. "I should have told you, but I didn't plan on..." he gestures between them awkwardly. "On a lot of things happening."

"What was your plan?" Jim asks curiously, he had wondered from the beginning, and with all the secrets coming undone, this is the moment to ask.

"I just wanted to be there. For the kids, for you... Batman couldn't. Bruce Wayne..." he's shrugging again, his voice distant and tight, and for the first time, Jim thinks he understands. He has wondered, many times, what exactly is driving Batman, what brought a man to care about the city so much. Pieces of the puzzle that were missing fall into their places, and the true extent of how difficult it must have been, everything, hits him, and it feels like his heart has stopped for a while.

Jim reaches out and pulls Bruce close, not a kiss, even though their lips are so close, but a warm embrace, foreheads touching, and Bruce's eyes are closed as Jim's hands on his back seem to work out all the tension. Slowly, purposefully, Jim pulls away, his hands working their way to Bruce's tie, easing it off. "Jim," Bruce starts, and Jim stops him.

"If you ask me if I'm sure, I think I'm going to punch you," he offers, smiling, and Bruce laughs softly, his breath caressing Jim's lips. "I've never been more sure," he adds, and his fingers start on Bruce's shirt button, undoing them slowly.

"Actually, I was going to say thank you," Bruce says, and then he's moving, pushing Jim further into the grand basement, towards the desk and the chair next to it, already working to push Jim's jacket off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

Jim's almost lost in the sensations; Bruce pulls off his glasses, places them somewhere, Jim can't see where, and then everything goes blurry, moving fast. There's a distant sound of running water, a low hum of it accompanied by the fast sound of Jim's pulse, ringing in his ears. Bruce's lips trail a wet line down his throat, and the cold air of the room feels strange against the heated up skin.

His head rolls back, eyes half-closed, but he can still see the contents of the blurry room, and he turns away, laughing.

"What?" Bruce asks, and Jim kisses him briefly before answering, waving his hand vaguely in the general direction of the suit.

"I think it's watching us."

Bruce rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch in a smile he can't hold back, and he shifts, turning them both so Jim's back is against the edge of the desk, and it's not yet painful, just slightly uncomfortable, but Jim doesn't care, even if his back might resent him for that later.

"I'm pretty sure Batman wouldn't do this," Bruce says, sinking to his knees, efficiently working Jim's pants open. "He might have wanted to, mind you."

"I'm pretty sure I should be worried that you speak of yourself in third person," Jim says, his eyes closing, his lips parting. "But I'm not sure.... oh, god," he groans as Bruce starts stroking him slowly. Jim looks down at him, and Bruce looks up, almost smugly, but the smugness doesn't reach the eyes, they're soft and honest, and Jim's not sure what makes his breath speed up more, Bruce's hand, or the open and raw look in his eyes.

The first touch of Bruce's lips is like an electric current, shooting throughout his body, frying all his nerve endings, the sensations make his skin tingle and burn. After that, he's lost, capable only of reacting to what's happening to him, guided by Bruce's hands and mouth.

The next conscious thought he has, long while later, is that they really should have made it to the bedroom, because the floor is really cold and really hard underneath, and he really doesn't feel like moving. Bruce's hand rests on his chest, fingers spread, palm warm against his skin.

"I really don't want to move," Bruce mutters, and Jim glances at him in some surprise.

"Are you reading my thoughts?"

"Damn, I wish," Bruce offers, opening his eyes, looking at Jim searchingly. "So..." he starts, and Jim rolls his eyes, kissing Bruce's forehead.

"So, I'll need to get going. I have at least three hours of work to get through. And you are coming by at six, and you better not forget the books you promised Barbara."

Bruce nods, his lips brushing Jim's shoulder, and Jim thinks that this is surprisingly easy, not at all what he expected. He doesn't mind at all.

 

Four days later, Jim finally works up the courage to have the talk with the kids. Bruce had volunteered to be there, but looked all too relieved when Jim told him there's no need. It needs to be done, Jim knows, and the thing is, the kids love Bruce, but it's different now.

He orders pizza, which at least will ensure that they have good moods, even though Barbara looks at him suspiciously, after all, it's not pizza night.

"I need to talk to you," he starts, awkwardly, and Jimmy looks up from the comic book he's reading.

"Are we moving?"

"What?" Jim blinks at him surprised. "No. Why would you think that?"

"Mike's parents were acting strange all week, and now they're moving. You were acting strange."

Babs nods when he looks at her, even though she's trying not to laugh. "Very strange. But if that gets us pizza more often, we won't complain."

He gives them both a long suffering look and shakes his head. "I need you both to know, I loved your mom, still do."

Jimmy gives him a matter-of-fact nod, as if they had talks like this every day. Barbara on the other hand, starts to get a thoughtful look that never bodes well. "You want to start dating again?"

This conversation is definitely not going the way he had planned it. "Why do you think so?"

"Please. We have cable. You start like every dad on every tv show ever."

He knew that a tv set was a bad idea. "I'm sorry for being so predictable."

She shrugs, as if she hadn't expected him to be anything else. Jimmy frowns. "Not Mrs Evanovich?" Barbara grimaces, and Jim throws her a look. Mrs Evanovich had taken to bringing them casseroles at least once a week ever since Barbara's death. Bruce had teased him mercilessly about it.

"No, it isn't Mrs Evanovich," he says, and decides to just cut to the chase and deal with the reactions, whatever they are. "It's Bruce."

That at least surprises Babs, her eyebrows rise so high they almost meet her hairline. Jimmy just bites his lower lip thoughtfully. "So..." Jim prods, and looks at them expectantly. This is definitely not going as he thought it would.

"Dating, like, dating?" Jimmy asks, and Babs pokes him with her elbow.

"How many kinds of dating you know?" she asks, and Jimmy shrugs.

"Well, there's dating like dating, and going out somewhere, and there's dating like when girls sit on the bench during the games."

Barbara flushes a little, and Jim really intends on grilling her about this later. And possibly grounding her till she's thirty, just to be on the safe side. "Dating, like seeing each other," he says dryly. "Going out." He might be flushing more than Babs is, he can feel the sweat gathering on his forehead.

"So, you and Bruce are going to go out," Jimmy says, frowning, and Jim shrugs.

"Or Bruce is going to come by the house. Or, sometimes, we might be spending some time in the Manor."

"All of us?" Jimmy asks.

"Yes."

"Okay," Jimmy says calmly, and picks up his gameboy, apparently loosing interest in the conversation. Jim looks at Barbara, and she shrugs.

"So, not like a lot is going to change," she points out, and he can't deny this. "Just don't make out where we can see you," she warns him with a slightly disgusted look on her face, the one she used to get when she happened to see him kissing Barbara in the kitchen, before she stormed out making lots of noise about parents being gross and embarrassing.

"We'll try," he says, smiling widely, and is about to stand up when Jimmy looks up, as if a thought just came to him.

"So, are you gay now?" he asks, and Jim chokes on his breath.

Babs covers her face with her palm, and he can see her shoulders shaking, even though she's trying to keep it down.

"Well, because Jeremy has a dad and a father, and I don't think they're dating, but they had a..." he looks at Babs, waving his hand vaguely. "Commitment something."

Babs is still laughing, even harder when she catches Jim's eye. "Come on, dork," she tells Jimmy. "We'll make popcorn with caramel." Jim gives her a grateful look and rethinks the grounding idea. Maybe till she's twenty five.

Bruce comes by two hours later, and hovers in the doorway until Jim rolls his eyes and pulls him in. "Relatively safe," he says wryly.

"Relatively?" Bruce asks, walking inside, waiting for Jim to close the doors, hesitating. Jim smirks, and leans in to kiss him lightly, managing to time it exactly with Barbara's entrance.

"Didn't see anything," she groans, raising her book to the eye level, and continuing to the couch hidden behind it. "Are you done?"

Bruce laughs. "Ah. Relatively."

Jim rolls his eyes. He should be given more credit for surviving that conversation. "Hey, Babs," he says, moving to sit in the armchair. "Did you know Bruce plays the piano?" The betrayed look Bruce gives him before Babs almost pounces on him, firing up questions, is definitely priceless.

After this, things get back to normal, only a lot better. Spring changes into summer, surprisingly hot for Gotham's climate, and Jim has to fight Bruce's ideas of taking them all to Europe for holidays. Biscuit grows into a rather large dog, and trails after Barbara wherever she goes. Alfred doesn't complain when the kids almost blow up the mansion's kitchen in the attempt to make brownies. All in all, life is pretty good.

As the summer draws to a close, on a particularly sunny day, they drive to the cemetery, Jimmy fighting uncomfortably with a tie Babs put on him, Jim carrying a bunch of freshly cut roses from their back garden.

"I'll wait in the car," Bruce says, uncomfortably, and Babs shakes her head.

"No, come on, Mom would want to meet you," she tells him pointedly, and holds his hand as they make their way to the grave.

And even though Jim misses Barbara terribly, sometimes so much it physically hurts, he thinks he might be happy. All in all.


End file.
